There are so many theories about Columbo’s wife not being real (she’s a complete fabrication, she’s secretly his boyfriend, he’s actually talking about a very opinionated cat, etc) and I love all of them but tbh he really gives off major “out of touch but super supportive straight man with a trans wife” vibes.
His wife was one of his guy friends for a while and when she finally came out to him he was like “Oh, wouldja look at that! This is VERY convenient. See, I’ve never been into guys myself. Nothing against fellas who like that, just not my cup of tea. So I’ve been trying to figure out for ages why I want to ask you out on a date. Confusin the heck out of me. Again, nothing against it, just never something I’ve been into before. I was having a whole identity crisis over it, Yknow. But I guess that clears all that up! Whaddaya say to dinner?”
Theres a sentiment I'm noticing in the tags that I'd like to address. I dont think learning to love bugs with all your heart means forcing yourself out of discomfort you have with them overnight. It's about observing a different sort of being going about its life and deliberately trying to reframe your observations through a sense of wonder and delight. It's about cultivating a positive interest and curiosity for their ecology and behaviors. It's especially about trying to uncouple the value we find in them from how 'convenient' they are to us; to face head on the part of us that wants to assign moral evil to another organism who just happens to live life in a way that is not harmonius with ours. You can love insects in this way and still recognize your own health and safety needs. We are animals living side by side within a biosphere. This is how it is, sometimes.
I think this is important to cultivate because, if you are alive at all, you are coming into conflict with countless other people and things that dont owe you an apology for their existance and needs. If you are alive at all, you are encountering countless other people and things that harmful bias and personal discomfort have made repulsive to you. This is about bugs, but its also about way more than bugs.
It's hard to explain to the uninitiated that you can just go for a walk just about anywhere with a bit of green (and sometimes even in the heart of a city) and find like a dozen neat little unique guys if you're patient and observant.
People get really into bird watching but here's a secret: bugs are WAY easier to find than birds and they let you get a lot closer.
Try to approach the world with wonder and curiosity rather than fear and revulsion. Bugs are a great place to start.
When I was in middle school, I really wanted a rat and my mama got me one before I had the chance to do any research, and I named him Mildew, and then I learned that rats get all fucked up if they don't have a buddy, so I got him a brother and I named the brother Dildew. Something to consider if you are currently pregnant with twins.
Doctor Who and his bestie of the week arrive in a perfectly normal, if particularly eventful, small town in modern day earth, full of quirky characters who have all been stuck in time for close to 40 years. They aren't trapped in the 80s, though, time keeps moving forward, but the people don't. They're aware of the passage of time, but not of their static nature. Their young son has celebrated 35 Christmases and 35 tenth birthdays and he remembers all of them, he just hasn't put together that this is too many for someone who would, if pressed, claim to have been born in 2014. Their daughter remembers being 8 in 2004, in 1998, in 1989, but she's sure she was born in 2016. The 44-year-old school principal has PTSD flashbacks from a war that should've been over five years before he was born. The parents are in their late 30s but their worn, elderly voices tell a very different story. What's causing this? Is it ethical for the doctor to make the residents aware of their condition, or to fix it, knowing Grandpa might crumble to dust if he does the math on his age? Should a state of affairs be allowed to persist like this for so long?
Unearthed in 2011, this short video created by cinema pioneer Eadweard Muybridge of a kiss between two women is the first kiss ever in the history of moving image, predating Edison's "The Kiss" by over a decade.
Ahh, Eadweard Muybridge. He may have committed a minor murder, but he also invented videos of women kissing, so it's impossible to say if he was good or not.
It's been a while since I've posted anything because the next pages of The Appointment are taking a while, so have a sneak peak of some planned future events in the meantime
--- THE FUTURE FLYER'S CLUB ---
"Maybe it's just because I'm going back through the hormonal teenage phase," I sighed. I looked at myself in the mirror. The changes were happening, but very slowly. My body was covered in puffy white down feathers, and my skin had gone grey. The bone morphics were coming along nicely.
"I don't regret it, but there is this hollowness in me, some new need that isn't being fulfilled. Even though I have friends, a partner, a support system, I still feel so heavy and alone."
"Perhaps it would help you to meet more therians of your 'theriotype'?" The mirror said.
"You know I'm bad at meeting people..."
"~That's bullshit~ <3"
"W-"
"Middle school. You joined band even though you were afraid. You gathered a group of outcasts and made them friends. Highschool, you put together an Acapella group to perform in the talent show. You gathered more outcasts and made more friends. Online, you took risks with a bunch of strangers and made friends for life. College you opened up again and again to people you never met. You are not bad at meeting people, you're scared and one day soon you will decide you want it more than you fear it."
... I walked away from the mirror. She was right. Maybe. Maybe I needed to create my own happiness. Maybe I was ready to take the initiative. I went to my tablet and drafted my first sketch of a club poster.
"Future... Flyer's... Club. A club for bird Therians (or any winged creature) that wants to work together to teach each other how to fly. Yeah. I think this is something we need. But am I good enough to make it? I don't know."
"But you want it more than you fear it. So take the leap."
Maybe I'll print a few test copies tomorrow. Maybe I'll bring them to my check-in with Erian next month and ask if I can leave some in his office. Maybe I'll ask Madam Mabel if I can leave a couple at The Roost.
Maybe it'll start small, and maybe it'll grow from there. My flock.
Flight isn't just an instinct, it's a skill.
No mother bird to show us how.
Lets show each other.
Welcome to the Future Flyers' Club! We have Posture Practice, which is just a scaffolding with a harness rig and a large fan (it took so many extension cords to get that fan all the way out here) but hey, it'll get you used to flapping and to the soaring position!
And if your legs are feeling stable, you might try out our long jump launch! It's a bunch of haybales stacked up with some distance markers on the ground.
I've also got a tape measure in my pocket if you want to check your wingspan or tail length!
I know it's not much to look at yet, but it'll get there. Just like us!
Unbeknownst to you,
In the land you're seeking,
Things have taken a turn.
Houses are ablaze.
The air is thick with ash and dismay.
People are fleeing.
The robed figures hold torches,
The dusk is orange and viscous,
Moments deforming like wax,
Blurring and dripping together,
Impossible for their witnesses to parse.
Homes, temples, shops, inns,
All carefully, quickly set alight.
At the peak of the mountain village,
An ancient ruin lies.
A squat, crumbling brick building,
Topped with a metal Effigy,
towering above the scene below.
What was once an ancient curiosity,
Of light interest to the wandering children of the village,
Becomes the burden of its destruction.
Folks from the town arm themselves,
Some with worn weapons,
Baptized in the blood of your townsfolk,
Some with improvised projectiles,
Bricks, rocks, chunks of metal.
Each defender, brought to their end.
Swiftly, unremarkably.
Flashes of sparks,
Dark magicks,
Ceremonial blades,
Nobody lasts more than a couple minutes.
—-----------------
As you step into the tent, you’re bathed with vibrant red light.
The air carries a strong, unnatural scent.
A tinted glass lantern is hung in the center of the tent,
Above four large tubs of liquid on the floor.
Various bottles, cups, and vessels are strewn about.
Before these lay a large antique tome,
It’s worn, pale pages left open to a passage somewhere in the middle.
The original text is surrounded by various notes,
scribbled in countless different scripts.
Evidently, this book is far older than you can comprehend,
Having passed through dozens of generations,
Eventually ending up here, in your presence.
You carefully begin reading,
absorbing as much sacred knowledge as you can,
Navigating carefully through centuries of addendums,
Picking up where the Photographer left off.
—-------------------------
Huddled masses begin their uncertain journey.
Wounded are carried on the shoulders of the young.
Their clothes are eclectic.
Evening gowns, robes,
Some are barefoot.
With unease, torches are lit.
The terrain is rough,
Thorns tear at flesh.
The quiet air is saturated with emotion.
Pain for the ones they’ve lost,
Shameful joy of surviving,
Intense, unforgiving guilt,
Gratitude for the universe.
Hatred for inevitable fate.
—--------------------------
Upon the sheet of metal,
An image appears.
It fades in, slowly at first,
Shards of black sunlight,
Stabbing through pale mountains.
Bright white trees,
Impossibly small.
A sense of panic sets in.
Have you left it in for too long?
Or not long enough?
As individual blades of grass emerge,
You solemnly remove the plate,
And place it in the next bucket of chemicals.
—---------------------------
Children have begun to cry.
Adults converse among themselves.
Steadily, and predictably,
Questions rise to the surface of discussion.
Where will they go now?
Where can they call home?
Who can they trust?
Who should they fear?
—----------------------------
Silver washes away.
The landscape inverts.
All becomes right.
You set the photo out to dry.
The task is finished,
Yet you can’t tear your eyes away.
It’s a curious sort of beauty.
A sight that you wouldn’t have thought twice of,
Made unique in metals and chemistry,
It brings you to tears.
—-----------------------------
The desperate caravan slows.
Legs aching,
Their eyes drifting shut,
Traumas refusing to be pushed from their minds.
Elders give an order.
The journey will be paused for the night.
Weary young scouts are sent out,
Searching for a suitable campsite.
—----------------------------
Your reverence is broken.
The faint sound of footsteps,
Softly squishing into the grass outside.
For the first time in your journey,
You reach for your weapon.
The weight of the hatchet grounds you.
This moment is real.
Your surroundings become vibrant.
Bright, flickering reds against deep, inky blacks.
The footsteps become louder.
Whoever it is, whatever it is,
It’s approaching the tent.
Adrenaline courses through you.
Your breathing is fast and heavy.
You are not going to die in here.
You are going to live.
You are going to fulfill your task.
Silent steps take you to the tent’s door.
Energy builds in your core.
Muscles are at the peak of tension.
Lungs fill with air.
With one swift motion,
You throw the flap open.
Axe raised, your expression crazed,
The culprit is bathed in the scarlet light.
It’s a person, roughly your age.
Their cloak bears the emblem of the Western People,
Yet their face shows none of the expected hostility.
Instead, their eyes are wide with fear.
They’ve dropped their lantern in the grass, its light extinguished.
Their entire being is trembling.
You soften, suddenly and fully.
The hatchet is set down,
And countless apologies leave your mouth.
Tears stream down their face.
Breathlessly, and wearily, they surrender to you.
You invite them into the tent.
It’s obvious they’re in need of respite,
And this is not your comfort to deny.
They accept, and take a seat with you.
A bond is made in the following moments.
They tell you of inexplicable horrors,
You tell them of hopeful peace.
—-------------------
They leave after a time,
And when they return, a dozen people follow.
Old and young,
Wounded, sick, and healthy,
The last vestiges of the Western People.
You invite them to camp with you in the clearing.
To join you in the tent,
To share your provisions.
Your people’s sacred enemies become your new acquaintances.
—---------------------
In the morning, your quest’s true objective hits you.
The realization pushes the air from your lungs.
Your mind is flooded with doubts, and they’re immediately dispersed.
You run from the tent, and find the Western elders.
The proposal takes some time,
Ancient grudges begin melting.
Eventually, with the help of the younger folk,
They graciously agree.
The Western People will return to your village with you.
And, although some of your people may not approve,
You will find peace.
Not through bloodshed or domination,
Nor through negotiations and boundaries,
But through unification.
—--------------------
You pack your things.
The photo, the card, the bauble.
The ancient tome.
You study your map,
And you look out at the horizon.
The sky is clear, and the air is brisk.
And your purpose is clearer than it’s ever been.
